


Red

by bad_peppermint



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:17:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad_peppermint/pseuds/bad_peppermint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin’s was a subtle art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [merlin_artmeme](http://merlin-artmeme.livejournal.com/), for [spacealtie](http://spacealtie.livejournal.com/)'s wonderful [prompt](http://merlin-artmeme.livejournal.com/2054.html?thread=8454#t8454).
> 
> The original posting is [here](http://merlin-artmeme.livejournal.com/2054.html?thread=8710#t8710).

“Just… don’t disfigure me, okay?” said Arthur, eyeing the hovering tip of the brush warily.

Merlin scoffed. He waved his hand around, because he was incapable of being still, _ever_ , unless he was concentrating on his art. Frankly, Arthur was amazed he’d managed to sit down long enough to paint their protest signs last night, though Merlin did have the habit of surprising Arthur, even after three years of friendship and almost as long a time of – on Arthur’s part, at least – more.

Still, Arthur kept his gaze fixed firmly on the paint glistening in the paintbrush’s little hairs, threatening to break lose and ruin his True Religion jeans any moment. Come to think of it, Arthur should have taken them off before he sat down, but quite frankly, he didn’t trust himself to strip down to his boxers around Merlin without embarrassing himself.

With a click of his tongue, Merlin splayed his long, capable fingers, artist’s fingers, over Arthur’s shoulder. “Uncurl a little, will you? I won’t even have a chance to disfigure you if you keep on impersonating a hedgehog.”

That was kind of the point, but Arthur’s body relaxed into Merlin’s touch of its own volition. Over the roar of his blood in his ears, he could barely hear the shouting outside, the frantic laughter.

Merlin considered him for a moment, tilted his head this way and that, and finally moved to kneel behind Arthur, smoothing one hand along Arthur’s back the way he did with his canvases, gentle but firm.

“You’re fantastic for this, you know,” he said. His voice was growing more distant as he contemplated his first brush stroke; it stopped being about Merlin, the clumsy, absent-minded, brilliant fellow art student, and became about the artist instead. It was the way he talked to his models – gentle comments and sweet guidance that, in the end, no matter how nervous or inexperienced or reluctant the subject, got him exactly what he needed to produce his masterpiece.

“Yeah?” Arthur’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

“Yeah.” Merlin squeezed his shoulder briefly, and in the sudden, frantic beating of Arthur’s heart, he almost missed the cool line of paint being drawn across his spine. “You’re broad, and solid. Tan, too, so the red will really shine.”

A glance down at Merlin’s palette revealed, yes, there was a surprising amount of red. Most of the time, it was Arthur digging out the primary colors while Merlin stuck to more muted shades. Merlin’s was a subtle art. Arthur was good, too, he knew that, but he liked clear lines, contrasts. He liked when someone looking at his art felt exactly what he wanted them to feel. Merlin was all about shades of grey. He liked subtleties, complications. He liked making his audience feel conflicted, to ponder his work, to think. Arthur, as Gaius once put it, liked ‘bowling viewers over with emotion.’ Merlin liked sneaking up on them from behind, seeping through the cracks before they even noticed his presence and anchoring himself firmly in their hearts so they never had a chance of getting him out, just like he had with Arthur.

“Not like _you_ , you mean,” Arthur said, cursing himself when his voice rebelled once again. He hadn’t had this much trouble painting Merlin, so why was this so difficult? With Merlin stripped down to his jeans, sitting on one of the desks with his back to Arthur, bare toes wriggling in the air, Arthur had had to swallow a couple of times but that was it. He’d lost himself in the work with barely any problems, wordlessly sweeping his brushes over Merlin’s skinny shoulders and the ribs that showed when he leaned forward. He’d managed to concentrate on the image, and not on the skin laid bare before him, even though it’d been years since he first began wishing for Merlin undressed beside him.

So why was this, sitting still while he couldn’t even _see_ Merlin, so hard?

Gooseflesh ran up his arms when Merlin stroked a long, curling line from Arthur’s shoulder down to his hip, again to broaden it, again. He paused to apply new paint, evened out here and there, jabbed the thin edge of the brush against Arthur’s skin a couple of times.

“You’re doing a dragon, aren’t you?” Arthur said hoarsely. “You copycat.”

Merlin laughed, his real laugh, momentarily thrown out of his artist’s mindset. “Well, young Arthur,” he said, in his best Professor Gaius voice. “Sometimes the best inspiration isn’t the most artistic, or the most abstract, but the most obvious.”

Arthur laughed, too. Merlin gave him a moment to compose himself before he laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder blade again, reminding him to keep steady. “It’s not my fault you ended up going first - I’d made up my mind a long time ago. And besides, since you painted a _merlin_ on my back, I don’t think you get to judge others for their lack of originality.”

“Excuses,” Arthur said, mock-lightly. Sure, the obvious was there – painting a merlin on Merlin’s back, or a dragon on Arthur Pendragon. But there was deeper meaning to Arthur’s design, however hidden, that he couldn’t help but wonder if Merlin understood. An homage to his feelings for Merlin: his admiration, his loyalty, and, yes, his love for his friend. Remembrance of when they’d first met – properly – in this very room, with its high ceiling and vaulted windows, overlooking the quad and the protestors gathering below.

#

Arthur’s very first university course was on Monday afternoon – introductory drawing with the head of the department, Professor Gaius, mandatory for all incoming art majors and thus crowded as hell. There were eighteen of them, when he’d last checked the roster, even though only fifteen participants were allowed, _and_ there were several other sections offered, each one as full as this one. Arthur pushed towards the back of the room, instantly settled by the smell of paint that hung irreversibly around him, left by decades and decades of hopeful future artists just like them. A handful of tables were pushed to the side to make room for the easels in the middle of the floor. Students sat and, in the case of one handsome shorty, stood on them, others crowding at the widows to point out things on the quad below. Others still had already claimed easels for themselves, chattering at each other excitedly as if they’d been friends their whole lives, and not met for the first time ten minutes ago.

Arthur leaned against a wall, trying not to look too overwhelmed, and let his gaze sweep over his fellow students. A couple of them he’d seen around during fresher’s week – the tall guy with the hair, Leon; sweet Gwen who’d helped just about everybody on his floor with their bags; the terrifying hipster with the dark hair that used eye shadow as liberally as Arthur wielded his acrylics. And of course, the beanpole who’d knocked Arthur and his box of art supplies down the stairs, rushed around trying to gather up the paints, and finally, _finally_ beat it after stepping on Arthur’s tube of Cadmium red. Arthur had already known he was an art student too from his frantic blathering, but he’d hoped and prayed that he’d at least be in a different course.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought he saw Beanpole glance in his direction, but at least he didn’t have a chance to come over and initialize awkward small talk because Professor Gaius swept into the room a moment later. Arthur liked his no-nonsense air – it was part of why he’d chosen to attend here, along with the university’s reputation for having one of the best art departments in the country. There were no grand declarations, no speeches designed to impress the young artistic mind. Instead, the man passed out their syllabi, introduced himself and the department, and told them to get out their supplies. They would start, he said, by, in half an hour, drawing something that they identified with.

As an initial assessment, Arthur figured, but his hopes were quickly dashed when Professor Gaius explained that it was meant for them to get to know each other – he would hang up their sketches in a long row, and their task was to figure out which was whose. Arthur bit his lip to keep his incredulous scoff from escaping. He’d come here to learn, not play guessing games with a bunch of toddlers.

Still, he found a spot shielded from curious eyes, settled against the wall between the radiator and a cabinet, dug out his pencils and placed his drawing board in his lap. Professor Gaius gave him an unimpressed look when he made his rounds passing out paper, but Arthur only offered a stiff, “Thank you,” in return. No matter how stupid the exercise, he was determined to produce high-quality work. Just because the whole thing was a waste of his time didn’t mean he was going to put in less than his absolute best.

#

At the end of the allotted time, Professor Gaius sent them outside for a break while he hung up their drawings. A distressing amount of students took off for a smoke, some for the restrooms, some for the vending machines. Arthur sat opposite the door until most of them had ambled back in, chattering, giggling and shouting. He earned a few curious looks that he ignored and was the first in the door, the first faced with the clothes line hung across the room, their drawings pinned up with, of course, brightly painted wooden pins.

With a disbelieving shake of his head, Arthur made his way over to one end of the display and took in the competition. There were a handful of self-portraits, some abstract, some not. Landscapes – one fairly impressive sketch of a dark, comfortable forest. One big bowl of pasta – hopefully not by the guy with the Italian accent, because way to subscribe to stereotypes. Down the line, a couple of people were giggling over a Napoleon, which was funny but Arthur was still staying the hell away from the artist. Actually, most people had managed to strike up conversations by now. Arthur glanced around quickly, but everyone looked busy with something or other, so he kept on wandering along the row, past a model in a fancy dress, a stack of books and a drawing of a hand sketching a hand before he got to his own.

It wouldn't win him any awards for creativity, perhaps, but considering the time constraints, Arthur did feel that his dragon had turned out rather well. It wasn't curled up to strike, or anything tacky like that. Instead, it sat, watchful, regally surveying the drawing room and its inhabitants. Had they been able to finish the drawings until the following week, Arthur could of course have done a lot more - give it proper scales instead of a few wiggly lines, and a real resting place rather than a halfhearted bit of shading. Still, he felt he'd transported what he wanted to say. He'd gone for a mixture of traditional Anglo-Saxon as well as Asian styles, and that, too, had worked out rather well - a bit disorienting perhaps, but the proportions were something Arthur was going to have to keep in mind for future endeavors.

On the other side on his paper was some sort of bird of prey, a hawk perhaps, caught mid-swoop. It was only a sketch, of course, but with a handful of lines, the artist had managed to give the drawing a surprising amount of details – the pattern of the feathers, the sharp gaze, the razor-like talons. Arthur stopped. It was easily the best drawing he’d seen so far, even including his own. Pencil wasn’t his best medium, and if maybe it wasn’t this person’s, either, then he was dying to see what they could do with something they were actually good at.

He was still staring at the sketch when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beanpole detach from a chattering group of girls at one of the tables and amble over. Arthur didn’t turn to face him.

“Hello,” Beanpole said. “I don’t know if you remember me-“

“I remember you,” said Arthur.

“Oh.” Beanpole colored a little. He fidgeted with his V-neck briefly before he suddenly thrust a hand at Arthur’s dragon and said, “I bet this one’s yours.”

Arthur turned to look at him, surprised. His art teacher at secondary school had said his art had a lot of his personality – bold, bright, straight-forward. He’d always considered that a whole lot of meaningless blabber, but perhaps… “How did you know?”

“You’re Arthur Pendragon, everyone knows that.” Beanpole raised his eyebrows in a way that really reminded Arthur of Professor Gaius. “It’s not very original, is it?”

Arthur tried not to feel insulted. He’d already known Beanpole was a twat, and perhaps Arthur wasn’t the most creative with his ideas, but he was good at what he did. So whatever. Dragons were badass.

“This one’s really good,” he offered as distraction. “The hawk.”

“Merlin.”

“Merlin, whatever.”

“No,” Beanpole corrected him, sounding halfway between amused and impatient. When Arthur turned to look at him, he had a hand held out between them, hovering uselessly in the air. “My name is Merlin.”

Arthur’s gaze flickered between the outstretched hand and the sketch. “Oh, now who’s unoriginal,” he said.

Beanpole – Merlin – grinned unrepentantly. “I see we’re going to get along splendidly.”

#

“You’re doing fine,” Merlin told him, voice smooth, when he sat down in front of Arthur and Arthur startled.

Arthur blinked at him a couple of times, feeling stupid, before he found his voice. “Done?”

“With the back.” Merlin laid his palette and brushes down and set his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, pushing and prodding until he had him settled the way he wanted him. “Not much longer now, you’re doing so well.”

Arthur’s heart kicked in with a frantic rhythm, at the touch and the words and the whole thing, and with his skin laid against Arthur’s, Merlin _had_ to feel it. Sure enough, he raised a gentle eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he picked up his largest brush and prodded Arthur’s chin up with the end of it.

“Stay like that,” he said. “Yes, just like that.”

With his head tilted out of the way, Arthur could only watch out of the corner of his eye as Merlin applied more of the wet, cool paint to his skin, sweeping it over his collarbone and onto his chest. Still, it was a soothing progression – dark red, then lighter at the edges, dark again for structure, white for highlights. Eventually, Merlin paused. He brushed a knuckle at Arthur’s chin, saying, “Thank you. Keep your shoulders back for me, though.”

With yet more paint, Merlin set to work across his pecs, running the brush’s bristles over skin that was still sensitive from shaving it that morning. Merlin had laughed at him when he told him, but in the end, Arthur figured their cause was worth a little ridicule.

He could still recall plain as day the outrage he’d felt when Professor Gaius had first explained that the art department was bound to be cut. It’d hadn’t even been all that long ago, but by now it felt like he’d been carrying those feelings with him forever – the disbelief, the despair, the anger reflected in the faces of everyone around him. Professor Gaius had been resigned, but he’d been the only one – the students, the younger teachers, everyone Arthur knew so well now, they’d refused to just accept it. _Art is an offensive weapon in the defense against the enemy_ , somebody had written above the entrance to the soon to be demolished art building that very night, and they’d been fighting with every resource in their arsenal since then.

The protest itself had been Lancelot’s idea, in the end. “We’re artists,” he’d said one night, in the fourth floor lounge of the Baker building, almost the entirety of the art department hanging on his lips. “We live art. We breathe art. All of us here, we could shrug our shoulders and turn our eyes away, because we’ll still graduate with a degree. But our art isn’t just for us, it’s for everyone – and we’re going to fight not just for us, but for all the artists still growing up, the ones being ridiculed for their passion, the ones hoping to find acceptance as soon as they’re amongst their peers; expect they won’t ever find it when even universities as liberal and open-minded as this one shut their doors on them because of money.”

So the protest had been Lance's contribution. Arthur didn't remember who had suggested that they paint themselves - or rather, each other - but the idea had been picked up immediately.

"Like a living testament to our craft," Mithian had said.

"Like war paint," said Morgana, with a frightening grin.

Most of them had elected to do their paint job outside, in full view of passers-by, cars, the art building and the administrative offices. The Dean's office faced away from their sad little corner at the edge of campus, of course, towards the stately lawns and fountains and the brand new economics building, but he was sure to hear the yelling regardless.

That was how they ended up having the main studio to themselves. Merlin had elected to paint inside because he couldn't get in the right mindset with too much noise and distractions. Arthur hated the thought of people judging him on a project he considered unfinished, so he generally refused to let people watch him work. Plus, most people figured they were attached at the hip anyway, so nobody had questioned it when they'd bypassed the small group outside the building some two hours ago and headed inside instead.

They didn't have a lot of time left, now, but from the fearsome dragon's head taking shape on his chest, Arthur figured Merlin was close to finishing. He had his head lowered in concentration, dark hair falling into his eyes, tongue occasionally wetting his lips as he worked. There was the smallest hint of blush on the bridge of his nose, and when Arthur stared at it in fascination, it spread along his cheekbones and all the way to the tips of his ears. Arthur felt corresponding heat rise in his own face, searing hot across the back of his neck and down to where Merlin was equipping the dragon with a fierce set of teeth.

When Arthur made a questioning noise, Merlin grinned without looking up. "Because you're a fighter," he said. "Hold still, now, we're almost there."

Arthur stayed obediently motionless while Merlin considered the artwork on his chest. He knew better than to hope that Merlin might be using the opportunity to appreciate _Arthur_ , as well - as he'd found out the hard way, Merlin's concentration on his art was absolute. When he was really working on something, he didn't even hear the fire alarm.

A few more darts with the brush, a highlight here, a smudge there, and finally Merlin set his tools down with a satisfied hum. "Gorgeous," he said.

Arthur couldn't help it - he leaned in to kiss him, heart only hammering all the more when Merlin responded without hesitation, pressing soft lips against Arthur's, paint-stained fingers finding their way into Arthur's hair. Arthur kissed him fiercely, hoping with all his might that his lips might tell Merlin what he never seemed to manage to say out loud; how much he adored Merlin, how glad he was that Merlin hadn't given up on his surly fellow freshman when Arthur had been nothing but rude to him for weeks, how much he hated the thought that graduation was a few scant weeks away and that their easy friendship, their close contact, their constant companionship might be lost to him forever.

And maybe it worked, because Merlin's lips on his were just as passionate, his fingers digging into Arthur's scalp like he never wanted to let go.

Eventually, though, they drifted from his hair, down his neck, along his jaw. When he felt cool fingertips skimming along his collarbone, Arthur pulled away, catching Merlin’s hand with his own.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You’ll smudge it.”

“Oh.” Merlin laughed, quietly. His voice sounded wrecked, his lips swollen and his hair a mess, and Arthur pressed a kiss to the knuckles he held captured. He’d wanted this for so long he wasn’t sure what to do with the moment now that it had finally arrived.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, hushed. He laid his free hand against Arthur’s cheek.

Arthur turned into the touch automatically, cold fingers soothing his burning skin. They slipped into his hair again a moment later, and he sighed, closing his eyes against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Merlin’s voice was quiet. “We should go down to the protest,” he said. “They’ll be starting soon.”

Pulling away from him was like wading through molasses. Arthur felt unsettled and stupid, every inch of his body protesting the sudden distance between them. It wasn’t until Merlin, with a quiet sigh and a groan, got up to clean his brushes in the sink that Arthur remembered that he cared about the protest – that there were – not lives, but livelihoods – at stake here; teachers, art, students. Arthur had seen Professor Gaius’ face grow steadily more drawn as the year went by, and he didn’t even want to imagine what it might do to the man if his beloved art department simply disappeared.

Outside, the gathering crowd had grown louder. He could hear the metallic snarl of a megaphone, words indistinct through the glass, and that was jarring enough that he managed to get up and carefully stretch his unhappy body. The drying paint pulled at his skin when he moved, but he didn’t mind that – it felt like little reminders of Merlin’s attention, a tangible souvenir of those light touches skimming over his body.

“Are you ready?” he heard Merlin ask over the running water in the sink. He sounded like he hadn’t quite managed to escape his artistic mindset yet – half distant, still, more worried about Arthur than about the paint he was managing to splatter on his jeans.

At least it would fit with their message, Arthur figured, and grunted an affirmation. “Leave the paints,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He tied his shoes while Merlin slipped his feet into his Keds – without socks, because he was a disgusting excuse for a human being, and then fidgeted around by the door, waiting for Arthur. He kept shooting Arthur little glances, uncertain, fluttering looks, and strangely enough, his insecurity made Arthur feel better. It was good to know that he wasn’t the only one unsettled – the only one still reeling from so much emotion coming to such a sudden head.

But he knew Merlin well enough to know that if he didn’t snap out of it, he was going to be off all day – uncertain, vulnerable, eventually irritable, and that was no state to be in when you were out in public half-naked, getting in the faces of strangers.

So he cleared his throat and said, unsteadily, “How much are you willing to bet Morgana painted her tits?”

Merlin laughed at that, a quick burst of noise that spoke of his own apprehension. He reached out to hook his fingers into Arthur’s and said, “She’ll cause traffic accidents. Maybe she’ll get arrested.”

“A true martyr,” Arthur said quietly. He leaned in close, touching his forehead to Merlin’s temple. “She’ll be a hero.”

Merlin responded with a quick, artless kiss. “Yes,” he said. “We will.”

TheEnd


End file.
